


Offering

by jotunblood



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Finger Sucking, Food Kink, M/M, pseudo-mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2855786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ciel puts his reading to good use, and Sebastian is given a taste of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offering

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Sebastian's demon form and backstory, so some of my headcanons have slipped in. Tried to keep it minimal, but they definitely make appearances here and there. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy this as much as I have!
> 
> Also, as far as the M rating goes, this is super soft M. It's only rated as such because it was a little too much for T.

Sebastian watched from the kitchen door as Ciel carefully grated nutmeg.

It was late, outrageously so. The boy had gone to bed nearly four hours ago, and though it wasn’t uncommon for him to roam the halls at night his wanderings had never brought him to the kitchen. In the eight years of their covenant, he couldn’t recall a single time his master had even come close to this room. Whatever had him roaming this night, Sebastian could only assume the emotional disturbance had been great.

“My Lord,” he said, announcing himself softly, and Ciel still jumped, nearly sliced the pale tips of his fingers on the grater. 

The boy-- no: young man, he corrected himself. Ciel would be eighteen in a matter of weeks, and carried the weight of age like a bag of stones. The young man panted lightly from the shock, turning his attention to Sebastian. The skin below his eyes was bruised, the harsh line of his jaw darkened with stubble. Yes, the Master was quite tired. 

“I ought to get a bell for you,” Ciel said, dry and cool. It was a joke, but only if one had known him intimately. The Master rarely laughed, but to his confidants he offered up these little quips. “You’ll stop my heart before it’s due.”

The boy turned his eyes to the nutmeg and resumed grating. The seed hit each metal tooth with a pop, releasing fragrant powder. Sebastian breathed deep, eyelids falling half-mast in content-- god, that smell. He had known it since his first day on the surface of this earth, since that first slow crawl from the depths of a hell-fed cave. Trees fat with it grew in a grove at the entrance, and the humans that lived on the far side broke the seeds down for nearly every meal. Sometimes Sebastian wondered what had drawn him out of hell first: the promise of souls or the dark smell of nutmeg ground to dust between stones.

“My Lord,” Sebastian began again, a touch quieter. “You need only have called me if you were craving. I could have made--” He paused, eyes darting around the kitchen for evidence of what it was the boy was throwing together. The nutmeg in his bird bone fingers, salt, a carafe of buttermilk, and what couldn’t have been more than two handfuls of oats in a mixing bowl. Oat cookies, perhaps, though when the boy had learned to make those he couldn’t have guessed. “--whatever it is you desire.”

Ciel passed the seed twice more over the grater before discarding the stub. “It isn’t for me.”

“Who then?” 

The young man ignored the question. lifting the grater to inspect his work. Under it stood a mountain of nutmeg, far too much for a human to consume in one or even several sittings. The spice was toxic for their kind, Sebastian had learned; surely he didn’t mean to poison someone? There were no planned visits from business rivals for weeks. Brows knit in confusion, Sebastian stepped deeper into the kitchen.

“Sir--”

“Do you remember that book I had you purchase last week?” Ciel interrupted.

Sebastian stopped just short of the island his Master was working on. He had purchased several books the week prior, though what relevance any of them might have to this moment escaped him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“The mythology book,” Ciel said, leaning deep into the ice box at the island’s side. “With that ghastly mermaid on the cover.”

Ah, that one. It was one the boy purchased on Sebastian’s recommendation. He hadn’t read it himself, but leafing through it he’d found the name of the island he’d first surfaced on. The island that smelled of nutmeg and dewy mornings and chalky caves. The illustrations of it alone were enough to tighten his chest; it would be nice, he thought, to have a copy of it in the Master’s library. Ciel would benefit from the cultural exposure, and he would have something familiar to press fingers to when the English nights grew too cold.

“I remember it, yes.”

The boy hummed from the belly of the ice box, resurfacing with a spoonful of butter. Taking it to the stove he dropped the creamy pat into a saucepan, beckoning for Sebastian to join him. Unsure of his Master’s intentions but unwilling to disobey this gentlest of commands, Sebastian took the room in long strides. 

If the Earl was frightened by the speed-- very little of what Sebastian did frightened him these days--, his face didn’t betray it. Handing the spoon to his servant and mumbling _mind the butter_ , the boy retreated to the island. His back blocked Sebastian’s view, but in the early morning silence the shuffling of oats could be heard. Mixing the dry ingredients, then. 

“I’ve been reading it at nights,” the boy said finally.

“Oh?” Sebastian kept his eyes trained on the butter, dragging the dwindling pat around the pan to evenly coat it. “And have you enjoyed my suggestion?”

“More than I thought I would.”

Sebastian grinned; it was the closest the boy ever came to thanking him. “My Lord is too kind.”

The boy snorted, dangerously close to a laugh. 

“Your standards are low.” Ciel’s voice was husky with the ache for sleep. Sebastian wanted to offer to finish this himself, but he was certain the boy would refuse. “In any case, I am enjoying it. But something in particular caught my attention.”

Behind him, the scent of nutmeg stirred. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the boy drop the mound in fistfuls, not pinches, into the oats, even rub his hands over the bowl to use every speck of that fragrant dust in the mix. Sebastian near groaned from the heady smell. It was enough dust for three or four seeds at least. How long had his Master been grating, and to what end? That much would make any mortal man violently-- perhaps even fatally-- ill for a week. 

“Did you know,” Ciel began again, bringing the oats and tangy milk to the stove top, “that there’s an island where nutmeg trees grow like grass?”

God, but didn’t he? “I’ve heard tell of it.”

The boy plucked the spoon from Sebastian’s hand, licking the bowl of it clean. His clever tongue dipped lazily, casually sensual in a way Ciel had grown into.

“More than heard, I’d wager.” The boy’s eyes glowed mischievous, and he flipped the spoon to tap the the handle against Sebastian’s breast pocket. “I’ve seen you pull seeds from here and suck them like hard candy.”

It was true. Sebastian kept a few on his person most days; even then the spoon’s handle knocked hollow against a stolen seed. It was a small pleasure to pop one under his tongue and savor the muddy spice while he worked. That his Master noticed was no surprise, and neither was his choice to mention it now. 

The boy loved his games, loved toeing the edge of asking too much. Sebastian was loathe to give any personal information; too many of his kind had been caged due to careless disclosure. Ciel knew this, and had always been playfully respectful of it. He would show his hand, bring the conversation to the edge of a question Sebastian was obligated to answer, then as swiftly as he approached, back away.

The boy had come to learn the pleasure of playing with his food. A fine predator. An intoxicating one. Sebastian loved this game too, loved the thrill of it. More than that-- though he’d never say it aloud-- he trusted the imp, and the tease of it left him starved and aching.

“You were saying, sir?” 

It wasn’t the voice of a butler, not entirely. Sebastian let his glamor slip slightly, returning to himself his discordant voice-- drops of water wearing limestone away, untuned strings plucking out a song that touched the edges of memory. Ciel shivered, lips wrapping around the fat spoon with a hum. Sebastian’s wide mouth, full of perhaps too many teeth, split into a grin.

Yes, he loved this game, and two could play it.

Ciel cleared his throat and turned his attention to the stove top. Giving the butter a final stir, he dumped the dry mix into the skillet and drizzled the milk over. The oats swelled, soaking up the liquid like rain-starved earth. He poured until the oats reached capacity and milk pooled on their surface. 

“The author apparently visited the island, and found a local village still adheres to a certain folk practice. Can you guess what it might be?”

The young man abandoned the soiled tablespoon for a large wooden one and carefully stirred the oats. Already the heat had set to work on the milk, drawing it deeper into the swollen grains and thickening them. Oatmeal: of course that’s what the boy was making. Creamy and deep brown, the smell of… 

Sebastian felt his eyes blow wide. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Nutmeg clinging to wild oats, milk tangy and sweet; he hadn’t thought of this in an age, hadn’t had reason to. Surely _this_ wasn’t in the book.

Taking his silence as answer, Ciel pressed on, stirring the oats slow. 

“At the start of each week, the villagers make a great big pot of nutmeg oatmeal and leave it in a cave at the furthest point in the light touches. They believe devils surface there, and are afraid to go any further.” Pleased with the consistency, Ciel removed the skillet from the stove top and scraped its steaming contents back into the mixing bowl. “They’ve never seen it being eaten, but report that each week when they return with a new batch, the pot has been licked spotless.”

Sebastian eyed the bowl greedily, hands clawed on the counter top to keep steady. He wanted to lean over it, make his body a cage for the sweet steam rising in tendrils. He wanted to slough off his skin and scoop the dark milky oats up with his talons and tongue. He wanted…

It was only when Ciel returned to the stove that Sebastian realized the boy had left at all. Shaking himself clear of the fog, he looked the young man over. The grater was in his hand again, and so was a fresh seed.

“It seems some beasts are mad for this spice,” Ciel whispered, dragging the seed over the grater to blanket the oatmeal’s surface. Satisfied with the coating, he laid both aside and took the bowl in his arms, facing his butler. “And you, devil?”

Near breathless, Sebastian turned eyes narrowed to reptilian slits on the boy. “What of me?”

Ciel’s lips split in a wide grin, and Sebastian was disappointed to be reminded that his Master’s teeth were level gravestones. Something sharp and far more wicked would better suit. Keeping his eyes on Sebastian’s, the boy dipped his hand into the warm oatmeal and scooped a small helping onto his fingers.

“What are you mad for?”

The boy extend his hand, too low for Sebastian to merely bend for a taste. He knew what his tyrant wanted, could smell the lust that suffused his scent, and he didn’t mind stoking it. Sinking to his knees, he lapped at the sticky tips of Ciel’s fingers, keeping his eyes on the young thing towering above him. Blue shaded dark with desire, lips opening in a small pant as the wet heat of Sebastian’s tongue wrapped around thin fingers. 

Deep earthy nutmeg, soft oats, the almost sour milk: all of it strung like pearls on the sweet strings of honey that had married with the boy’s natural taste throughout years of overindulging in desserts. It was a comforting taste; he wanted the whole of it, would take it all on his knees if his Master so wished. 

Lips parting, Sebastian sank down the length of Ciel’s fingers, smearing the sticky treat across his own tongue. The boy’s hips bucked, and he dug nails dangerously close to talons into the skin there to steady him. The bite of pain did nothing to quell the young man’s movements; under the oppressive points, Sebastian could feel the boy squirm. 

He smirked around the fingers, their pads pressed trembling to the back of his tongue. If it was pain his Lord wanted, who was he to deny?

Hollowing his cheeks, Sebastian pulled off the fingers tight and achingly slow, trailing glistening spit. A lazy moan crackled from deep in the boy’s throat, spiking sharp when the razor edge of a tooth caught the pad of a finger. Keeping the tip between his lips, Sebastian suckled the wound, let coppery blood mix with oatmeal on his tongue. Ciel’s hips snapped, driving the burning hardness of his trapped cock into Sebastian’s chest, and how he wished he could shift then: shed this tired body and give the young man something supple to buck against. He had seen his Master’s cock hard and aching more than once, and could imagine how beautiful it would be pressed between soft breasts-- ruby red and dewy with impending release, fucking Sebastian’s chest while he suckled Ciel’s fingers to prunes.

Ciel withdrew his trembling hand and the fingers slipped from Sebastian’s lips with a pop, a thread of sugary spit drawing thin between the two. The boy watched it through heavy lidded eyes, pulled his hand back sharply to break it, letting the string snap and bead against Sebastian’s lips. 

“Does my offering please you?” Ciel asked, voice cracking under the weight of lust. 

“Is that what this is?” Sebastian's mouth fell open in invitation, and the boy quickly coated his fingers in the oatmeal again, pressing them insistently to his butler’s tongue. Sebastian licked them spotless before speaking again. “I wonder: do you offer to curry my favor?”

“I have your favor already.”

That was certainly true. Anything the young man wanted was a whisper away. “What occasion is this then, My Lord?”

Keeping his blown eyes fixed on Sebastian, Ciel squeezed the tip of his wounded finger, dropping blood like rose petals into the oatmeal. The sight pulled a growl like grinding gears from Sebastian, and through the haze of his own desire the boy grinned.

“I’m feeling pious tonight,” he teased, scooping up oats pink with blood, “and want to show my beast reverence. So I’ll ask again: are you pleased?” 

Sebastian didn’t wait for the hand to reach him this time. Rocking forward on his knees, he caught the sticky fingers between his lips, let the momentum fully seat the digits in his throat. The force of it knocked Ciel back, trapping him between the counter to his back and his kneeling butler. A delicious position-- so rare to have the boy willingly ensnared. Ciel hated having his back to anything, be it a hard wall or soft sheets, and fought being pinned tooth and nail. But now, in the purpling light of rising morning, he accepted his butler’s manhandling with nothing more stern than hitched gasp. 

It toed the edge of endearing, and Sebastian rewarded the complacency with a firm press of his palm to the boy’s aching, trapped cock.

“Most pleased, My Lord,” he whispered, low enough to still enjoy the sharp arc of Ciel’s cry. “And if you will allow it, your devil would see your reverence repaid.”

And Sebastian would, gladly. The young man’s cock was proud and rigid under his slim fingers, and he was eager to palm it in the free air. Above all else, however, he was a greedy beast, and Ciel had made a wealth of this sticky treat. He would milk the boy dry, but only after he had been given his due. 

Only after he had licked the last morsel from his Master’s faithful hands.


End file.
